My Life After Now - By Jessica Verdi Page 0,42

pages attached to it.

My dads and I divided the forms up—they took the insurance and past medical history ones and I was left with the ones that only I could answer, like the social behaviors checklist and the description of present condition. I took the clipboard over to a far corner of the waiting room so I could write my answers down without worrying about anyone reading over my shoulder.

When all the forms were completed, the copay had been paid, and the formalities were over, the wait began. There sure were a lot of people here for a Saturday morning on a holiday weekend. I didn’t know whether to take that as a good sign or not—on one hand, it seemed this doctor was in high demand. On the other, a lot of the patients were in really bad shape. They were run-down and tired-looking, some were coughing, some were incredibly thin. Many looked utterly miserable. If this doctor was so great, why did his patients look so sick?

This was all getting way too real.

And still the wait continued. As patients were called into exam rooms, more patients came to sign in. The flow was endless. I focused on breathing and tried to ignore the queasiness in my stomach. I’m not sick like these people, I tried to comfort myself. It’s just nerves.

My dads and I didn’t talk much. Like magnets, our gazes kept drifting over to the muted television hanging from the ceiling, but it was nothing more than an automatic reaction to the presence of the flickering screen. I don’t think any of us were really in the mood to learn about all the terrible things that were going on in the world from the CNN ticker.

Over an hour after we checked in, my name was called. My dads got up to follow me in the room, but the nurse stopped them.

“Patients only beyond this point, please.”

I gave them the most reassuring smile I could, letting them know I’d be fine, even though I wasn’t sure if I really would, and followed the nurse into the room. She took my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature, and then handed me a faded cotton gown. “Put this on, open to the back. You can leave your underwear on, but take off everything else, including your bra.” She dropped my chart in the little plastic holder stuck to the outside of the door, and closed the door behind her.

I was all alone.

I surveyed the tiny exam room. It looked like any other doctor’s office I’d ever been in. But though it was familiar, I was anything but comfortable. Shivering, I stripped down and hurriedly put the gown on, fumbling with the ties. I left my socks on. I was freezing.

I sat up on the bed, the thin paper rumpling beneath me, and covered my legs with my hoodie.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a brief knock at the door and before I could even say, “Come in,” the knob turned and the doctor entered the room.

“And you are…Lucy Moore,” he said, not looking up from the chart.

“Yes,” I said.

He went over to the sink and washed his hands with lots of soap. “I’m Dr. Jackson.” He sat down and took his time reading through all my forms. I felt entirely invisible and uncomfortably obvious all at the same time, sitting there in practically nothing in front of this stranger who was ignoring me.

Finally, he looked up. As soon as he laid eyes on my face, he frowned and flipped back through his notes, looking for something. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I replied.

He sighed and shook his head in clear disapproval. I’d thought doctors were supposed to be nonjudgmental.

“And how do you know you’re HIV-positive, Lucy?” Dr. Jackson asked. Suddenly, his voice had taken on an entirely different tone, doing a complete one-eighty from the all-business, detached manner from when he’d first entered the room to sugary-sweet condescension.

“I was tested,” I said, goose bumps erupting all over my skin, and not because of the cold.

“By whom?”

“Harlem Free Health Services.”

“Where is your copy of your test results?”

“I don’t have it. I got my results over the phone.”

A corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. “Of course you did,” he said.

What the hell was this guy’s problem? He was treating me like I was a five-year-old playing dress-up.

“What grade are you in at school, Lucy?”

“Eleventh. Why?”

“Have you had sex education classes at your school?”

“Um, yeah…”

“So they’ve taught you all about the importance of safe